“You’re lying to yourself. I’m just collateral damage. You need to face the fact that last night was special and could never have happened if you didn’t care about me.”
She held up a staying hand. “I’m done with this conversation. Enjoy your waffles, Mac. I’m going home.”
“Don’t go.” Anger warred with fear as he watched her retreating back. “At least let me drop you off. It will take you forever to walk.”
She didn’t turn around. He fought the desperate need to follow her, knowing he’d already pushed too hard. If he stood any chance at all of her coming around, it had to be on her terms. She rounded the corner, disappearing from view, and he let out a string of curses.
Despite his best intentions, he’d still managed to drive her away, and in record time.
Now to figure out how to drive her back.
Chapter 10
Frankie stared blindly at the carburetor on the greasy towel in front of her. After leaving Mac in the dairy aisle of the grocery store then spending the rest of her Saturday watching old movies, she’d gone to the garage in hopes of finding something to keep her mind busy. She’d scooped up a couple smaller parts to take home and work on.
Now Sunday was more than half over, and she’d done little more than stare into space trying not to imagine Mac slow dancing with Melissa Figbert. The girl with a last name that sounded like something plucked from a tray at the Russian Tea Room. She was probably a classic beauty, the picture of grace, and had perfect fingernails without a hint of grease under them. Surely, she knew how to waltz, put together a soirée at a moment’s notice and maybe even do embroidery.
Frankie let out a heavy sigh and risked another glance at her cellphone. Nothing from Mac at all. Maybe he’d finally come to his senses. She swallowed past the tightness in her throat and picked up a screwdriver. It was bound to happen. She should be grateful it was now, before she was balls to the wall, head over heels in love with him.
She was so tangled in thought that she jerked in response to the sharp rap on the door. Mac? Her stomach did a flip as she rushed to the window. She pushed aside the curtain to see a cream Mercedes in the driveway. Not Mac. Then who?
She crossed the room to the door, sparing a glance at the face staring back at her from the glass doors of the hutch. Wincing, she said a silent thanks that it wasn’t Mac at the door. She looked like shit. Yanking the elastic band from her hair, she gave the long locks a quick finger brushing before sweeping it back into a ponytail.
The knock came again, this time more insistently. “Coming!”
She peered through the peephole to see Mimi Sanders glaring back at her. Blood rushed to Frankie’s ears, and her hand stilled on the doorknob. This couldn’t possibly be good, but what could she do, leave the woman on the stoop?
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Francesca, open the door. It’s chilly and I’ve forgotten my scarf.” The crisply issued command brooked no argument, and Frankie responded like a scolded schoolgirl, swinging the door open.
Mimi swept in on a cloud of Shalimar, making a beeline for the kitchen, leaving Frankie to stare after her. “I’d love a cup of tea,” she called.
Frankie shook off the initial shock, closing the door with a snap as she ran through the possibilities for this visit. Only one of them made any sense at all.
Mother Sanders had been thwarted the day before because there was safety in numbers. Today, she’d come by in hopes of cornering the weakest gazelle alone and tearing her to shreds. Little did she know that their little ménage à awful at the grocery store had been all the convincing Frankie needed to back off. She’d known from the start this thing with Mac was an exercise in futility, but the thrill of being with him had lulled her into some sort of opium-like daze where for a few sublime hours she believed anything was possible.
No longer.
That didn’t mean she was going to let this woman make her feel like a piece of trash, though.
She squared her shoulders and gathered up her courage as she made her way to the kitchen.
“Listen, Mrs. Sanders. I can guess why you’re here, and while I appreciate your stick-to-it-iveness, there’s no need to waste your time or mine. Mac and I aren’t a couple. We never really were and we are even less so now. Our relationship from here on out, if any, will be strictly platonic and centered around business.”
The older woman shrugged off her coat and thrust it at Frankie.
“On a hanger, not on a doorknob please,” she instructed, then sat ramrod straight in the nearest chair, crossing her trim ankles as she waited expectantly.
Frankie stood for a moment, at a loss for words. With a sigh, she loped off to again do Mimi’s bidding, muttering to herself all the while.
Why couldn’t she send her packing? Was she that much of a wuss?
She comforted herself with the thought that she’d had an emotionally draining couple days and, had she been one hundred percent, she would’ve held up much better against the bulldozer that was Mimi Sanders.
By the time she returned, Mimi had laid out a small stack of photos—some black and white, some color—on the table. “Sit.”
Frankie sat.
“Would it surprise you, Francesca, to know that I’m fully aware of my flaws as a woman and a mother?”
Frankie shook her head politely but apparently didn’t manage to camouflage her doubts on that score because Mimi’s rose-tinted lips twisted into a wry smile.
“I suppose I deserve that. I don’t comport myself in a way that indicates humility, do I? But on the inside, believe me, I can be as neurotic and unsure as…others.” She raised a brow at Frankie pointedly.
“Oookay.”
Things had taken the oddest turn. Suddenly Frankie’s theory seemed off, and she had no clue where the strange encounter was heading.
“I know that I’m demanding and snobby. I know I care far too much about what others think. I nag my only son as if it’s my purpose in life, and even that pales in comparison to the amount of abuse my husband takes.”
Mimi rifled through the photos, plucked one from the bunch and held it out to Frankie. A lovely young woman, around fifteen years old, stared up at her. Her golden hair leapt off her head in a riot of curls, and the most beguiling gap- toothed smile wreathed her sun-kissed face. Freckles sprinkled her nose and the apples of her round cheeks. Her eyes snapped with a devilish delight that had Frankie’s lips splitting into an answering grin. The child’s zeal was infectious.
“That’s Mary-Alice Starkey. She’s a pip, isn’t she?” Mimi said, her tone bittersweet.
Fear lanced Frankie’s gut. “Is she…dead now?”
A crack of laughter exploded from Mimi’s mouth, and she nodded. “Oh yes. Long dead.”
As Frankie stared into the eyes of the woman before her then back at the picture, one piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Holy crap, that’s you.”
“Sure as shootin’ is, darlin’.” Gone was the cultured, upper-crust New England accent that had separated Mimi Sanders from the unwashed masses. This was Deep South. And not the pecan-ranching, debutante kind of Deep South, either.
Mimi could have easily been a Clampett.
“My mama was from tough stock, and she made no bones about us making a bettah life than she had. My two older sisters and me, we were wild when we was young,” she said with a whisper of a smile before steeling her spine again. “But she made sure we straightened out. Landed ourselves some good men with fine families. It wasn’t easy. Charm school was paid for by her second job as the mistress of a sugar plantation owner.” Her shoulders shuddered delicately. “Mr. Samuel Beaudegraven. What a bag of wind. I don’t know how she stood it, but I know why she did. For us.”
She smoothed the yellowing picture with one hand and cleared her throat before continuing. “And now here we are, you and I. I have spent my whole adult life trying to escape my beginnings. It’s a part of me, the need to make sure my children don’t go and undo all the hard work me and my mama d
id to get them out. To give them some legitimacy. But it’s times like these I feel a bit like a general without a war. You know what I mean by that, darlin’?”
“I think I do, yes, ma’am.”
“Because nowadays, nobody cares much about legitimacy or about what’s proper. Sure, the Montclaires do, and the Samuels, but aside from this little vacuum of a world I live in, does anyone really know or care?” She shrugged helplessly, suddenly looking every one of her sixty years. “Not one lick.”
A surge of sympathy rolled through Frankie, and she reached out to give the other woman’s hand a squeeze. Things were never as black and white as they seemed.
“Mackenzie has always suffered my silliness with a sort of good-natured acceptance. He’d get irritated, but he let me have my way if it didn’t tax him overmuch. But yesterday?” She shook her head grimly. “Yesterday I pushed him too far. Lord, I never saw him so furious. Gave me a piece of his mind, he did. Told me I had better take my snobby ass—he sure did cuss at me—over to your house and apologize for my behavior.” She lifted a hand to her elegant, champagne-blonde coiffure and sighed. “I didn’t much care for any of that and told him so. But he was right, and I told him that too. Then he told me he loves you.”
Frankie slammed her eyes closed as white lights exploded behind her lids. She sucked in a breath, then another, but she couldn’t seem to get enough air.
“Put your head between your knees, darlin’, and breathe through your nose.” Mimi’s voice sounded very far away, as if they were playing telephone with two cans and a length of string. “Get yourself together, young lady. Last thing I need is to tell my son I went and killed you. He’s likely to think I did it on purpose for spite. Come on now, slow breaths.”
A cool hand rubbed circles on her back as she did Mimi’s bidding. After a minute, her heartbeat started to slow and her lungs began to cooperate.
“W-we only went on one date,” she wheezed.
“Must have been a doozy. Or maybe he loved you before that. When I look at you, I surely do see a bit of this girl in there.” She tipped her head toward the photo of herself as a child. “I have neither the backbone nor the inclination to resurrect her, but I think I could get used to having someone with a little fire around in small doses. Not that I’d ever admit it outside these walls. Think on it long and hard because this whole hippy-dippy nonsense won’t happen again. I love my life and I have no intention of changing it for anyone. When I walk out this door, good old Mary-Alice is dead and gone again. If you become part of the family, I’ll butt in where I’m not welcome, browbeat you into fundraising events and even try to dictate your wardrobe. I’ll ride you about using the proper fork at a restaurant and I’ll not let my grandchildren run around like heathens. In public, at least,” she added with a wink. “As long as you understand that, and you’re good to my son, you and I will do fine.” She pushed the chair back and stood. “Now be a dear and fetch my coat.”
Frankie’s thoughts were racing as fast as her heart. It took a raised brow and pointed stare to kick her into gear. She made her way down the hall to the closet and retrieved the coat. Mimi had followed her and stood, arms outstretched, as Frankie held it open for her to step into.
“I appreciate your hospitality. Although I never did get that cup of tea,” she said with a tsk as she let herself out, pausing on the doorstep. She didn’t turn around and her voice was hushed, but Frankie heard her loud and clear. “I do apologize for my behavior the other day. It was…unbecoming.” The words were barely out before she faced Frankie and continued briskly, “Now, maybe you want to consider running a brush through that hair and applying some rouge. Mackenzie is at the coffee shop down the street, and I’m sure he would love to see you.”
With that, she turned on her heel and marched down the stairs as Frankie stared after her, speechless.
Chapter 11
Mac sent the watch on his wrist a baleful glare.
His mother had been with Frankie for over an hour. That couldn’t be good, could it? An apology should’ve taken a few minutes, tops. Then again, this was his mother. The first hour was likely her working up to it. Apologies didn’t exactly come naturally, that was for sure.
The bell jingled over the door as another person who wasn’t Frankie or his mother stepped in, bringing a blast of chilly air with them. He tore his gaze away and took a slug of cold coffee. What would he do if she wouldn’t hear him out? More to the point, what could he do?
And the answer was not a fricking thing.
If she didn’t want to take a chance on them, then they’d go back to the way things were. Friends. Fellow car enthusiasts. Customer and proprietor. He’d have to console himself with the memory of their brief time together as more. At least they’d had that.
What a crock.
He swallowed a bitter laugh. Whoever said that nonsense about having loved and lost clearly didn’t know shit. It felt awful. Way worse than when he’d only been with Frankie in his imagination. The reality of it had been so much better than anything he’d expected. Going back to less would be sheer torture.
He pushed away his cup, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’d always considered himself a patient man. Hell, he’d waited two years for a change with Frankie, but he was at his wit’s end. If he didn’t hear something from his mother soon, he was going to lose his mind.
His cellphone chimed, jarring him from his thoughts, and he yanked it from his pocket. Marjorie, his assistant. He diverted it directly to voicemail.
The door jingled again, but this time when he looked up it was to see Frankie Polaski striding toward him. His body tensed, on high alert, as his stomach took a dive. Even now, with their possible future hanging in the balance and her blank expression, he couldn’t stop from admiring her. The elegant way she moved, the long line of her neck. He was well and truly snared.
She pulled out the chair across from him and dropped into it. “You sicced your mom on me?” she whispered furiously.
Upon closer inspection, the look he’d initially interpreted as enigmatic seemed more like shell shock. Her eyes had a glassy sheen, and the confusion on her face was plain to see.
“It sounds pretty lame when you say it like that,” he admitted. “But to be fair, I didn’t exactly sic her. I just told her she needed to apologize. She agreed, and we decided to meet here afterward so I could make sure she went through with it.”
Frankie gave him a dubious eye squint. “That’s all you told her to say?”
“Yep. So here I am. Waiting to see if she went through with it.”
She met his gaze then nodded. “She’s a piece of work, you know.”
“I do.” He was afraid to say more as his imagination ran wild. What the hell had his mother done?
“She told me some…things.” Frankie’s face turned a pretty shade of pink as she began fiddling with the sugar packets on the table.
“She, uh, said that she wouldn’t necessarily disapprove if we were together. If you wanted to be, I mean.” Pink became magenta as she let out a whoosh of air, blurting, “She said you love me.”
Mac jerked back as the words hit him like a slap.
He’d already pressed Frankie too hard once and had ruined everything. Now his mother had to go and tell her that. He could almost hear the final nail being pounded into the coffin. He fumbled to recover, letting his face go blank as he struggled to figure a way to do some damage control without lying outright.
“My mother tends to be both melodramatic and nosy. She was rude to you and hurt your feelings. I would have insisted she apologize to anyone she treated that way in my presence. You think she’s bad now? You can’t imagine what she’s like unchecked.” He shot her an innocuous smile that he hoped didn’t betray his roiling emotions.
“So you don’t love me?”
He stared at her hard as he tried to untangle his thoughts. Her rich brown eyes regarded him expectantly.
Was that hope shining there? Fear?
She swall
owed audibly, her delicate throat contracting, and suddenly it was clear as glass. It didn’t matter what she thought she wanted to hear. She loved him too. The question was whether she was willing to take a leap with him. It would kill him if she walked away. But after years of watching his mother dance to the tune of the people around her who she so desperately wanted to impress, he’d had his fill of phony. He’d been daring Frankie to be honest with herself, face her fears.
How could he turn around and do less than that himself?
“She wasn’t lying. I do love you.” He shrugged helplessly. “Every time I see you, I fall a little harder. In fact, I had to build a new garage last year. Do you know why?”
She shook her head dumbly.
“Because I bought six cars. Six. Don’t get me wrong, I love cars. But more than that, every time I saw one I knew you’d like, I’d imagine your eyes lighting up when you saw it. I’d picture us choosing colors for the paint, and me stopping by with coffee, checking up on your progress. Us laughing and flirting. You in your little overalls. I hadn’t planned on buying any more cars until I was through with my business expansion plans, but the prospect of spending time with you was too tempting to pass up.”
Tears clung to her lashes as she slapped a hand over her trembling mouth.
He leaned closer and took her by the wrist, uncovering her lips. “And now this new garage is full too, so it would be really great if you could put me out of my misery and tell me you love me back,” he urged gently, hoping she couldn’t hear his heart knocking against his ribs.
The tears spilled over and she nodded once. “Okay.”
Better to Eat You Page 14
